


Good Ol' Fashioned Boot Licking

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: (lots of steppy), M/M, nasty fic, pwease no steppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Stryfe and Wade have a moment. Blind Al is there.





	Good Ol' Fashioned Boot Licking

**Author's Note:**

> For some lovely folks on the Cablepool discord server. We all love to suffer.

There was such a world of possibility in wreckage, in ruin. The bigger the mess, the more pieces there were to build something new from, a sort of project, entertaining for a while until you decided to knock it over and start again.

Stryfe had a soft spot for messes.

Look at Wade, for example. The consummate human mess, deliciously dependent and infinitely malleable, mind scrambled before Stryfe had ever even met him… Wade was a perfect pet, a contradictory companion; a killer with a _conscience_ of all things. He had _rules_ , even if he bent them on a regular basis. Wouldn’t kill children, didn’t want to hurt his friends.

Well, a broken thing could always be broken down more, couldn’t it? Look at him now, standing over the blind woman’s body, shaking and sobbing. Wade had wanted to use a gun, to kill her from a distance; his begging had been adorable, pathetic, but with a firm hand Stryfe had whittled his options down to the katanas or a combat knife. Something personal. Something so she would know who had come for her, who was ending her.

Perhaps Wade had thought he’d make a cleaner kill with the katana, or maybe he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Certainly he hadn’t expected the old woman to put up so much of a struggle – fruitless of course. It had only made things more painful for herself and for Wade, which in turn made a bigger mess for Stryfe to play in.

There’s blood everywhere; the walls, the carpet; cast off from the blade it makes a pretty comma and whorl on the ceiling. Blood on every surface, back splatter on Wade’s suit darkening the suit’s red. Blood… on his boot.

Hmm.

Stryfe didn’t particularly care for that last detail, but it gave him a _wonderful_ idea.

“Wade.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t want –”

“Wade!”

The merc’s head snapped toward him, his hands closing into obstinate fists. But he shut up, so that was a step in the right direction. Stryfe doesn’t quite feel proud of him, more satisfied that he’s beginning to behave… the way one might feel about a dog learning to piss outdoors rather than in; Wade’s obedience to him was natural, just the way it ought to be.

“Come here,” he orders, and smiles thinly when Wade casts a last lingering look at his dead friend, snuffs back snot, and marches over to his master.

He brushes Wade’s cheek, over the disgusting map-work of scar and shifting, endless wounds, and looks down at him fondly. “Hush now. You’ve made such a mess already.” He loves the eager way Wade leans into his hands, putty in his palms. “You got blood on my boot,” Stryfe goes on, smile curling a little at the way Wade stiffens, looks down, and bites his lip. He kneels so easily when Stryfe puts the barest pressure on his shoulders, looking up at him with this hopeless, clueless expression that makes Stryfe _very_ pleased to have taken Wade’s mask away.

“Clean it up,” he says, so very softly, and watches as Wade shifts back on his knees, and bows, almost as if eager, to begin licking the blood from his boot.

The metal allows for no real transfer of sensation, but there’s still a heady, beautiful sensation of dominion over this man, the way he gets to work without hesitation, his devotion to his caring, doting master so complete.

Of course, it’s a little spoiled when Wade’s shoulders begin shaking, fresh sobs wracking him as he works. Stryfe doesn’t need to be able to see through Wade to know he’s getting tears and snot on his boot, probably lapping it up with the smeared, half congealed blood. One oh his hands has disappeared into his lap, too, baser instincts conflicting with his mourning.

He’s repellent, honestly, but Stryfe likes that in a pet.

With a vicious kick, he catches Wade under the chin and sends him sprawling, moving quickly to stand over him, soiled boot coming to rest with threatening, promising pressure on the smaller man’s groin. Wade moans, muttering something about “no steppy”, and throws an arm over his eyes. Stryfe grinds his foot down, barking, “Look at me, Wade.”

And Wade, oh, he looks, he looks utterly done in and wrecked and Stryfe hasn’t even had any _real_ fun with him yet.

“I’ll give you another chance to clean this _mess_ you’ve made up, without getting your piss and tears all over, do you understand?”

Wade nods furiously, opening his mouth and then closing it, remembering his manners. Dogs don’t bark unless told to speak, and what is Wade but a very interesting dog?

He steps down a little harder, just to make Wade groan again – he’s nothing if not a doting master – and then backs off, letting Wade scramble to resume cleaning.

There’s nothing like a mess, Stryfe thinks, to get the creative juices flowing. He’ll have to invest in a pair of decent leather boots sometime soon; he wants to _feel_ Wade’s tongue and his desperation, not just watch it.


End file.
